


Rose Garden

by J_Nerd



Category: Beauty and the Beast - All Media Types, Original Work
Genre: BDSM, Brothels, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Play, F/F, F/M, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Character of Color, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Mystery, Prostitution, Queer Themes, Sex Work, will update with tags as needed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2019-01-06 06:12:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12205458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Nerd/pseuds/J_Nerd
Summary: Andrea Babineaux was taught fairy tales began benignly. They weren’t supposed to begin at the edge of a nightmare dragging her kicking and screaming into a dark carriage one Saturday afternoon, but that was where she found herself.Unknowingly sold by her indebted father in a desperate gamble to save his own life, Andy now belongs to another. Shackled and gagged, she is spirited away to the Rose Garden, a brothel known far and wide for its quality and luxury, but beneath the beautiful facade lurk deadly thorns.If Andy wishes to survive this garden of lust, deception, and debauchery she must use all the resources available to her and prove her worth, while unraveling the mystery surrounding the infamous Dominic Labete, the man who purchased her.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Quick note to my readers, this is a pet project of mine that I've been working on behind the scenes for about two years now. It started as kind of a bet between my partner and I and grew into something more. I won't be updating this frequently at all. Between work and my other writing duties, this is a very back-burner piece of work, but I'm proud to share it with you while it's in its infancy.

**Prologue**

* * *

 

“Father! Father, please!” Andy shouted loud enough to strain her vocal cords as hard as she strained the muscles in her arms. Her fingers, strong though they were, slipped from his in a clumsy fumble, severing her lifeline as she was physically carried away by the Stone-boys. “Don’t do this! Please don’t do this!”

Her cries fell on deaf, helpless ears. Only her sisters could stomach watching her dragged from the house, their bitter, heartbroken tears flowing across splotchy cheeks. By comparison, their father remained dry-eyed, arms at his side, face red with shame. There was no denying he was a beaten man— his right eye starting to blacken as physical proof of his cowardice—and his remaining daughters hated him for it.

The Stone-boy’s held Andy tight, one brute on each arm, carrying more than dragging her to the waiting carriage. She fought them as hard as her instincts demanded. Twisted, jerked, screamed, kicked: anything that might break their near inhuman grip on her biceps, but she might as well have been struggling against a mountain for all the good it did her.

She was across the front lawn before Andy could register the watery sunlight, manicured grass slipping away under her feet like a receding tide. Grabbing hold of the carriage’s door frame, she managed one last glance at her family watching from the house before the bulk of a massive Stone-boy blocked her view and shoved her backward with shocking ease. The carriage door promptly shut like a moneylender’s purse, cutting off the echo of her cries.

“Come, come, my dear, there’s no need for such dramatics,” the Candlestick Man sitting across from Andy tisked, crossing his slender legs.

Andy didn’t listen or even acknowledge him, the small confines of the carriage closing in on her. More than once, she threw her shoulder against the carriage’s windowless door, but with one of the Stone-boy’s standing against it, her efforts left her with a bruised shoulder and a ringing headache.

“My dear,” he sighed, pinched amusement pulling at the planes of his face, “if you keep this up, I will be forced to restrain you. That is the last thing I want to do today. Your father sold you. Accept this sour tonic and move on.”

“I’m no one’s property!” Andy screamed. “You can’t just buy a human being like their cattle in a stockyard!” Her anger would have been more potent had the carriage not jerked into sudden movement, throwing her unceremoniously onto the cushioned bench behind her. Mere hours ago, her father occupied that same loathsome bench as he made deals with devils.

“In that, you are wrong,” the Candlestick Man corrected with a slash of a smile. “Everything has a price, including people. Your father learned that lesson, and now, so will you.”


	2. Chapter 2

Four hours ago Andrea Babineaux’s life had been simpler. Four hours ago she wouldn’t have thought it possible for a Candlestick Man flanked by Stone-boys to appear at her door with her disgraced father to tow. But she should have known something was amiss when she woke to a quieter house than normal.

The morning dawned overcast, watery sunlight struggling to pierce the veil of clouds. An early riser by unfortunate nature, Andy threw back her comforter and set her feet on floor an hour after sunrise, stretching sleep from her body. Throwing her curtains aside did little to brighten her room, but it did provide a glimpse at the quiet, misty street below. There was a kind of magic to misty mornings. Andy liked to pretend, if she concentrated hard enough, she could see shapes in the swirling mist, fantastic creatures drifting back and forth through the low condensation like leafed-through pages of a fairytale. Throwing open her window and leaning out, she breathed deep, loving the complex smells of the city. Well, loving them enough until people started emptying their chamber pots.

Saturday was a quiet day in the Babineaux household. No sharing the halls and kitchen with servants. No chores, save for the most important or necessary. For the first time all week, Andy could move at her own pace in peace.

As was tradition, servants were sent home during the weekend, leaving the sizable townhouse to be manned by its permanent residence. It was a tradition started by Andy’s late mother, though recently adhering to this strange habit had more to do with self-preserving frugalness than benevolence. If cutting corners and pinching coins meant that food, clothing, and basic luxuries remained affordable, it was a small price to pay. For Andy, it was a game. The absence of her servants meant she was the lady of the house—or at least one of them. Her older sister Delia certainly had every right to challenge her for that role.

Dressing quickly, Andy made her way downstairs, careful where she set her feet to keep the floorboards from squealing. Her younger sister was a light sleeper. God only knew what state her father was in if he was even home.

Shouldering open the kitchen door with a song in the back of her throat, Andy took in the sprawling, spotless room with a quick glance and felt her chest warm. This was where she loved to be. Here, she was a true mistress of the household. Her mother’s love for cooking hadn’t been lost on her daughters, but only Andy seemed fascinated by the prospects of bringing simple ingredients together into a masterpiece of taste.

This morning, she set about choosing an old yet tried and true menu. She plucked eggs from the basket left by the servants the day before and nabbed a loaf of day-old circular raisin bread from the cupboard. From drawers and pantries, she pulled jam, butter, salt-cured sausage, and other staples. Lighting the stove with practiced ease, Andy cracked her eggs into the skillet and threw in a healthy dollop of butter, frying them alongside her sausage and leftover ham from last night’s dinner. With water for tea and coffee heating in a kettle and her skillets sizzling, Andy bustled about gather the last elements of her meal before she heard the telltale thump of footfalls above her and smiled. Charlotte was awake, no doubt roused by the alluring aroma of cooking food.

“Your stomach tells time better than a church bell,” Andy teased as Charlotte burst into the kitchen, the tight ringlets of her hair bouncing. Unlike Andy and Delia, Charlotte inherited their mother’s natural curls. An envious prize for any young woman.

“What can I say? The aroma was enticing enough to rouse me from the depths of my rest. I tell you truthfully, the smell of sizzling pork is better than any smelling salts. Why, if ever there came a time to rouse the dead, simply cook bacon in a graveyard and you could recreate the second coming. Ha! Oh, that was a good one. I need to write that down!”

Andy fought back a groan. Charlotte had an affinity for writing. Poetry was her vice. No one in the Babineaux family knew where she got it from.

“You’re not going to get into the University spinning bacon puns, Charley.”

“How do you know?” the younger girl argued, frustrated when her search for a spare inkwell and quill turned up empty. Usually, the cook left one in the kitchen. “I might find a butcher looking to advertise, and he’ll need something witty.”

Behind Charlotte’s back, Andy rolled her eyes. “Help me to the parlor, poet.”

“Better a poet than a bard,” Charlotte sniffed with playful cheekiness as she was handed a tray of food. For a girl of thirteen, she was short for her age, the tray nearly as broad as her slender shoulders.

“Charley, my dove,” Andy smiled sweetly and placed a kiss atop her little sister’s head, “If you were a bard, I would have killed you by now.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Charlotte gasped. Andy mimed cutter her throat with the knife she wielded with practiced ease and slumping dead onto the counter.

“It would be such a tragedy, to be sure. The brightest of the Babineaux girls, her life cut short,” Andy was saying, still sprawled on the countertop. “Oh, if only she had learned how to sing _and_ rhyme! She could have been saved from a cruel twist of fate!”

“So much love in this house!”

“Don’t let her tease you, Charley. Andy’s only jealous she’s not half as good at writing as you are.”

Both girls turned towards the servant’s entrance as a tall brunette slipped through the door and closed it quietly behind her. Her long hair was sloppily braided and pinned into a bun, mirroring how hastily it appeared she’d thrown on her wrinkled clothes. But despite her disheveled appearance, Delia Babineaux was a stunning beauty. Out of the three sisters, it was Delia who most closely resembled their mother: delicate in her tall stature with gentle angles and soft curves. She shrugged out of her coat but stopped when she looked at Andy again, squinting.

“You cut your hair.”

The observation was innocent, but it still left a flush crawling up Andy’s neck. She resisted the urge to reach up and run her fingers through her chin-length brown hair. The day before yesterday it had cascaded down her back.

“I needed something new, and thought this would do.” The lie came easily even if it wasn’t wanted.

“Look who’s rhyming now,” Charlotte giggled.

“Hey, my writing and rhyming are fair. I’m just better with an abacus,” Andy shrugged with a half-hearted smile. “And I thought you’d be with Marcus at his chateau all weekend eating grapes and stroking each other’s faces.”

Delia snorted, hanging her coat on the hook next to her. “My aren’t we salty this morning. I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

“I’m happy to see you!” Charlotte grinned, abandoning her tray and wrapping her arms around her older sister. Delia returned the affections with a kiss and tousled her curly locks.

When Andy remained tersely silent, Delia shooed her youngest sibling from the kitchen with instructions to finish setting up breakfast. Always eager to please, Charlotte leaped to obey, gathering her tray and bustling out of the kitchen.

“What’s wrong?” Delia drolled, stretching out the words. Hitching her hip on the counter, she watched Andy finish plating the last of their meal.

“Nothing.”

“You can’t keep giving me the cold shoulder whenever I return from Marcus’. What’s the problem?”

“It’s nothing, Del,” Andy said with unconvincing sincerity. It was easy to tell when she was upset by the tightening of her jaw and the way her eyes crinkled at the edges. 

“You’re a horrible liar, little sister. Is it because he and I aren’t wed? Are you still clinging to that argument?”

Silence.

Delia looked to the ceiling with a sigh and folded her arms. “Andrea, dear, there is more to life than marriage. Marcus and I have discussed this. We don’t feel the need to publically declare our feelings for one another.”

“It’s adultery, and it’s shameful. What would Mother—”

“No,” the eldest Babineaux girl bristled, a flush working up the slender column of her neck. “You do not get to talk about Mother or use her as a basis for your argument. And since when did you start paying attention to the clergy? Better yet, when was the last time you stepped foot in a church? Wasn’t it last Christmas with the rest of us? Don’t preach adultery and sin to me, Andy. Not in this house.”

“And what about the people in town?” Andy snapped, slamming the knife she was using point-first into the cutting board. It quivered when she let go and rounded on her older sister. “What about your reputation? Or maybe even mine or Charley’s? People talk. They see you and Marcus out and about, and they whisper. What happens if those whispers spread into full-blown rumors? How will you find work, or are you relying on Marcus for everything? Do you think the University will look kindly on Charley’s application if they think she’s a loose woman? What about me?”

“You don’t get to worry about my reputation,” Delia growled, stepping closer. Their six year age difference was irritatingly translating into height disproportions. Andy barely reached Delia’s chin.

“I do worry! I worry all the time. And sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who worries enough!”

“My life is mine to own. I love Marcus. He loves me. You’re not Mother, Andrea. You don’t get to decide how things work in this house. And as for Charley, she’ll get into University on her own merits. Who I decide to spend my life with won’t affect that.” Then more quietly she added, “It’s not like Father has left us with our dignity intact anyway.”

Andy blanched and turned away, unwilling to discuss their father, but Delia pressed the issue by asking where he was. “How should I know? He does as he pleases. I saw him four days ago, but haven’t seen him since.”

“No doubt stuck with his head up some whore’s skirts. Bastard,” Delia muttered darkly. Even if she and Andy couldn’t come to an agreement about her living arrangements with Marcus, all three sisters were of the same mind when it came to their father.

“The Collectors came the day before yesterday looking for him,” Andy informed her older sister after wiggling her knife free from the cutting board and storing it with the others.

“Oh? What now?” Delia asked warily.

“Father defaulted on payments again. The Collector tried to tell me he owed forty percent interest on the loan he took out to pay back the land tax.”

“Wait, what?” Delia’s delicately shaped eyebrows snapped together. “That’s not right. Last I heard it was twenty percent.”

“It was,” Andy smiled wanly, the barest hint of mischief sparkling in her eyes. “And I reminded him of this. He didn’t believe me until I got out the paperwork and did the sums in front of him. Needless to say, he was fixing to spit by the time he left, but Father now owes the bank double last month’s payment, if we want to keep the house.”

“Shit.” Head in her hands, Delia used her thumbs to massage her temples. “Where are we going to come up with the money? It’s not like we can—“ Her head shot up, realization slamming into her. “Oh, Andy…no. Tell me you didn’t!”

The younger girl couldn’t resist anymore and touched her hair, biting her lips as she did. It was so short. Shorter than she had ever worn it. “I was able to pay half of what was owed. The wig shop was very…accommodating. The rest of the money will come from Father’s account; if there’s anything left in it. If not, Charley said she’d be willing to part with a few books.”

“I’m speaking to Marcus tomorrow,” Delia snarled before surprising her sister and wrapping her in a tight hug. “This can’t keep happening. We can’t live like this, selling parts of ourselves just to stay afloat. I’m so sorry you had to make that sacrifice. And I’m so sorry I wasn’t here to help.”

“It’s not like I was using it,” Andy replied, but squeezed her sister all the same. It went without saying Andy felt more than a little uncomfortable with her hair being so short. She liked to think she was above such vanities, but she wasn’t. Losing her hair stung. 

“Are you two coming, or am I going to eat all this food myself?” they heard Charlotte call from the parlor.

Breaking the embrace first, Andy rubbed moisture from her eyes and picked up the last tray. Delia retrieved the tea kettle and followed her into the parlor. Neither older sibling made mention of the conversation they had just had, nor did they draw attention to the fact it looked like Charlotte had already begun eating.

The three dined together happily. Delia caught them up on the town gossip while Charlotte scratched new ideas for poems and short stories in her favorite notebook. From time to time she would interrupt her older sisters by asking their opinion on a particular rhyme or phrase, ignorant to their cringing. At half past nine, they were about to rise and gather their dishes when the distinctive clatter of carriage wheels against cobblestones nabbed their attention. This wasn’t an uncommon thing—they did live in the city—but it was curious the sound paused outside their home.

“Delia, were you expecting someone?” Andy asked, pressing her face against the window for a better look. The yard out front ended in a manicured line of hedges surrounding an ancient wrought-iron fence. The gate was never locked—rust prevented it from moving—but the hedge blocked Andy from seeing much of the carriage save for its dark color and the equally dark horses pulling it.

“My tailor was supposed to make a stop here this afternoon, but I wasn’t expecting her until three. Is it another Collector?” Delia frowned, rising from her seat.

“I don’t think so. I can’t see any sigil.”

No sooner had she said that the door swung open. Again the hedge prevented either sister from getting a good look, but there wasn’t any need to wait. A man emerged from the carriage and strode purposefully for the door flanked by two brutish looking men a head and a half taller than him. Both women felt their hearts sink. There was no mistaking a Candlestick Man and his Stone-boys. There was also no mistaking the hunched silhouette of Gerard Babineaux trailing behind them.

Rushing for the door, Andy wrenched it open before the Candlestick Man could raise his fist to knock, surprising him. 

“Good morning,” he greeted with a short, professional bow. “I assume I am addressing either Mistress Delia or Mistress Andrea?”

“I…umm…” Andy felt her tongue go limp and stared numbly at the man.

The Candlestick Man was thinner than a sapling with a grin like a switchblade. It could either disarm or eviscerate, depending on his mood. For now, he was disarmingly charming. The suit he wore was a precise thing, expertly tailored to fit his willowy frame. A bright yellow and orange cravat at his neck stood in stark contrast to the black and gray material of his jacket, mimicking how a flame would look at the end of a candle. Gold cufflinks shaped like miniature candelabras held the ends of his sleeves in place and marked him as a high-standing member of the Candlestick Society. By comparison, the two Stone-boys behind him were dressed in simpler attire. Their black suits were no less tailored, but they lacked the rigid restriction of formal wear.

“For God’s sake, let him in, you stupid girl,” Gerard snapped somewhere behind the Stone-boys when Andy didn’t immediately stand aside. No one but her caught the flicker of dark annoyance flash across the Candlestick Man’s face, but it was enough to make her swallow hard.

“Please, come in,” she mumbled, allowing the men entrance. Her father was last to trudge through the door. He refused to look at his daughter, face pinched with anger and another emotion Andy rarely saw. Regret.

“Father?” Delia ventured, rising nervously from the divan. Only Charlotte seemed enamored by the arrival of the strangers towing their father behind them like a disheveled, dirty lost dog. Sitting on the edge of her seat, she looked from one Stone-boy to the next, brown eyes wide.

“Not now, Delia,” Gerard said, waving her to silence, before turning his attention to his youngest daughter. “Charlotte, go make a fresh pot of tea for our guests.”

“But…” she stalled, clearly not wanting to be sent away. Saturdays were always quiet days. They never entertained visitors. “But Andy’s better at making—“

“That wasn’t a suggestion!” Gerard shouted, unable to keep the flare of his temper down.

Charlotte jumped as if struck and moved instinctively behind her eldest sister who shielded her as best she could. Gerard was known for having a sharp tongue and a quick fist when angry, and he certainly wasn’t a happy man at the moment. Judging by the amount of purple creeping into the veins on his forehead and neck, disobedience would have been a grave mistake. It took Delia three tries to get Charlotte to move into the kitchen, but even then her retreat was hesitant.

Once out of the room, the Candlestick Man took over the conversation with a flourish of practiced ease. This was a man accustomed to speaking with the public.

“You have a lovely home, and I am honored to make your acquaintance. My name is Louis Chanlir, and I am the director of the Candlestick Men. I apologize for not announcing myself or my men sooner, but the business we bring to you today is of a…sensitive nature. Young lady, would you please join us?”

Andy flinched when the men in the room, her father included, turned in her direction. She hadn’t moved from her place by the door. In fact, she hadn’t been able to let go of the handle. Something told her clinging to the cold metal was her best option for survival, easy freedom just beyond the door. Unclenching her hand took a great deal of effort. Moving to stand beside Delia took even more.

“Wonderful. Gerard, you have lovely daughters. Though, I wasn’t aware your youngest was so small. What was her age?”

Was Andy imagining it or was that anger she saw the Candlestick Man’s eyes when he slid his steely gaze onto Gerard? No, not just anger. There was something darker, more akin to disgust lingering in his blue stare.

“Thirteen,” Gerard croaked, still staring at the floor.

“Ah, thirteen. So young. _Too_ young,” he tisked, clicking his tongue. Louis turned and regarded the remaining two women, a thin, forced smile tugging at his lips. “Well, time cannot be wasted. May I have your names?”

“Why are you here?” Delia demanded instead, body rigid whereas Andy was coiled like a puma. This didn’t feel right. Stone-boys didn’t make house calls with the leader of the Candlestick Men. The fact her father refused to look her in the eyes didn’t help ease the trepidation building in her chest like a storm.

“Delia! Don’t be rude.”

“Like you’re being, Father?” she spat. “What are these men doing here? Why are they asking about Charley’s age?”

“We are on a business errand of the upmost importance,” Louis explained before Gerard could get a word in edgewise, tugging a pair of black gloves from his hands and tucking them into his pocket. “I’ll put this simply. Your father took something from my master. I have been sent here to retrieve a trade of equal value.”

Andy and Delia both turned their eyes on their father, but only one of them burned with cold contempt.

“What did you do?” Delia accused in a low hiss.

“He soiled one of Monsieur Dominic Labette's courtesans. His _personal_ courtesan, the Belle Rose, to be exact. Your father was caught in the act of fornication sometime in the early morning hours. My master was furious, as you can imagine. The only reason your father is alive and standing before you now is because Monsieur Labette requested recompense for his crimes. Recompense that begins and ends with one of you.”

The air left the room. The earth tilted. Andy thought she would vomit her breakfast all over the plush carpet as ice slithered through her veins. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw the Stone-boys move in eerie unison. One blocked the door while the other stood in the hall policing the stairwell and the only direct route to the kitchen. The trap had been set and sprung at the same moment, leaving both women dazed and terrified.

“What?” Delia managed to rasp. How she was capable of speaking after a shock like that, Andy couldn’t say. She was having trouble just focusing. The room was too bright. Her breathing too loud.

“One of you will be taking her place,” Louis said, spreading his hands. “And since your father failed to mention one of his daughters wasn’t of age, the unfortunate task falls onto one of you two.”

“None of us are your property!” Delia spat, advancing on her father. “What are you thinking?! We’re not cattle to be sold at market! You have no right even entertaining the idea! We’re your _children,_ you son-of-a-bitch!”

No sooner had the words left Delia’s mouth her head snapped to the side and she stumbled backward into Andy from the backhand Gerard laid across her right cheek.

“Don’t ever speak to me like that again!” her father thundered, rage distorting his features. He had never been considered handsome, but when angered Gerard looked more monster than man. “You are mine! I own you until I—“

This time, the one who stumbled was Gerard, but it wasn’t a slap that sent him flying halfway across the room and over a small lampstand. It was a punch to the face from one of the Stone-boys. The giant moved faster than either Andy or Delia thought possible, nimble as a pine martin and twice as fast. There was, however, nothing nimble about the blow, and when Gerard pushed himself up he was bleeding from both nostrils and a split in his lip.

“Dear Gerard, you chamber pot piece of shit,” Louis was saying as he crouched in front of the stunned man. The smile splitting his face would have made a razor seem dull by comparison. “When in the process of a business transaction, it is never good to _damage the goods_.”

With a snap of Louis’ ungloved fingers, the same Stone-boy who delivered the punch hauled the lanky man to his feet by his right arm before wrenching it behind his back. “I should have my Stone-boy break your arm for touching a woman in such a manner. Especially a woman who happens to be your daughter. As it stands, my Master has broken you enough. My Stone-boy has bloodied you enough, but the next time your fist flies unwanted and unwarranted, I’ll break your _fucking_ neck myself. Clear?”

Gerard could only bob his head, the pain radiating from his twisted arm and blackening eye intensifying. With a nod from Louis, the Stone-boy released him and turned back to Delia. Red though her face was, she wouldn’t bruise nearly as badly as her father.

“My apologies, Mistress Delia. I knew your father was a swine, but I didn’t think him so low-bred.”

“Seems there are quite a few pigs in my home this morning,” Delia snarled. Louis shrugged off the insult.

“As I said before, I am on an errand, unhappy though it may be. Your father has already signed a binding contract. One of you will be leaving with me this morning, so I would like to examine you both.”

“If you touch so much as a hair on mine or my sister’s head, I will flay you. None of us are going anywhere. This is absurd! No, it’s illegal! My mother was a Governess! You can’t just barge in here and expect us to roll over for you just because my father signed a contract without our knowledge or consent!”

“My dear,” the Candlestick Man sighed tightly, pinching the bridge of his slender nose. “Bloodlines mean little to Monsieur Labette. And it means even less to me. As for the contract, you both are unwed and unspoken for. Your father, therefore, holds the right to place you wherever he pleases. He was just unlucky enough gambled with your lives and lost.

“Now, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. The hard way involves one of my Stone-boys holding you in place. If you struggle, I can have them pin you to the floor. The choice of maintaining your dignity rests entirely in your hands.”

“You…you can’t do this!” Delia shrilled, backing away as a Stone-boy moved to take her arm much like he had done with her father. She was quickly losing her defiant streak, fear leeching the color from her face.

“Hold her still,” Louis said, pulling his gloves back on and reaching into his pocket, retrieving a coil of string with black marks evenly space along the strand. Delia pushed Andy back and looked as if she might bolt for the door when the Stone-boy’s meaty hands closed around her delicate wrists and held her arm outstretched. 

“I—I’m already spoken for!” Delia shouted before the Candlestick Man could begin his work, struggling. “I’m to be married!”

“What?” The question came from both Gerard and Andy simultaneously. The second oldest Babineaux girl seemed to rouse from her shock and turned, brown eyes widening in disbelief.

In a blink, the commotion ground to a halt. The Stone-boy still held Delia splayed like a piece of meat for appraisal, but the Candlestick Man paused, raising an eyebrow.

 “Since when?” Gerard frowned from across the room. He’d managed to staunch the flow of blood leaking from his nostrils with a strip of grimy cloth. 

“Marcus proposed earlier this week,” Delia squeaked, struggling to steady her shaking. She bit her lip after glancing at Andy but marshaled on. “I was going to tell you once you returned home, but I didn’t know when that would be.”

“Marcus who?” Louis inquired, watching her like a fox would a mouse. He motioned for the Stone-boy to release her. Delia was all too happy to jump away.

“Marcus Duchamp. He and I have been courting for more than two years.”

 _She’s lying,_ Andy wanted to shout, feeling her heart sink. Marcus hadn’t proposed. There wasn’t a ring on Delia’s finger. She was saving herself.

The sensation of betrayal was a new emotion for Andy. She wasn’t used to the nest of fire and ice it carved out of her chest, or the acidic words it burned into her tongue. After all she’d done. After cutting her hair so her family wouldn’t lose their home. After arguing with Collectors while her father and older sister traipsed around doing whatever pleased. Andy was once again left stranded in a storm of their making, manning a sinking boat. The unfairness of her situation was crippling.

Something unreadable passed across Louis’ face when he glanced between the sisters, apparently weighing the older woman’s words. He tapped his chin before shrugging. “Well now, that certainly changes things.”

Crossing the room, the Candlestick Man stood before his last viable option. Andy had to fight back swinging at him and taking her chances darting around the Stone-boys. “Andrea, was it? Would you take my hand, please? I’d like to look at something.”

Every fiber told her to run, but she couldn’t. The threat of violence was too great. Shaking, she extended her hand. Louis’ fingers closing around her wrist like a snare. A whimper almost made is past her lips, but he was gentle in his handling, spreading her arms with an appraising look only to duck under her right elbow. When he spun her around with a practiced snap, there was a playful sparkle in his eyes.

“You have lovely balance. Do you dance often?”

“No,” she mumbled, unable to speak further than monosyllabics.

“I think you might be lying.” Before Andy could correct him, Louis launched into a short waltz around the small room. The brunette stumbled her first few steps, but she had grown up as a child of wealth. All sons and daughters of higher nobility knew how to waltz.

“You have a natural grace, my dear. How old are you?”

“Twenty,” Andy said as the impromptu dance came to a stop.

“And your hair? Why so short? Do you have lice?”

This time, Andy met his gaze with a thunderous scowled. She could feel the heat of her anger and indignation thawing the raw emotions simmering just below the surface. “No. I cut it to pay for my father’s debts. Apparently, that was a wasted venture.”

Gerard sagged with shame like a drooping candle, his haughty demeanor in shambles.

Louis tisked, shaking his head. “A pity. You are a rarity. Most women wouldn’t have parted with something so precious, but with time, you will be the envy of every woman in France. With a little bit of polish.”

He ended his last words with a playful wink. Andy didn’t flush at the compliment. She paled. 

“I’ve made my decision.” Louis bowed at Gerard, but the fear that once rooted the young woman in place abruptly turned into explosive adrenaline. The Candlestick Man still had ahold of her left wrist, so Andy stepped into him and slammed her heel into his foot. It would have hurt had she been wearing heels. As it was, she wasn’t aiming to hurt. Merely distract. The hurt came next when Andy drove her knee into Louis’ unprotected groin.

Feeling his fingers slacken, Andy wrenched free and dove for the kitchen, her feet losing traction on the transition from carpet to hardwood. Charlotte was just coming out and dropped her tray with a shattering crash when the Stone-boys closed in around her older sister like falling mountains. Strong hands grabbed her shoulders and forearms, hauling her bodily off the ground. There was no chance of escape, but that didn’t mean Andy didn’t struggle.

 “Father! Father, please!” she shouted loud enough to strain her vocal cords as hard as she strained the muscles in her arms to grab hold of him. She caught his hand as she was dragged past, but it was as limp as a fish. Strong though Andy’s grip was, she slipped from him in a clumsy fumble, severing her lifeline as she was physically carried away by the Stone-boys.

“Don’t do this! Please don’t do this!”

But Andy’s cries fall on deaf, helpless ears. Charlotte screamed and took chase, fighting the Stone-boys every step of the way until Delia hauled her back before the men could trample her. The younger girl, seeming to understand what this meant, turned into her sister and wept.

“My condolences,” The Candlestick Man winced, stepping next to a visibly crying Delia. He fought the urge to massage his aching groin, limping as he moved. “I know this is hard for you two.”

“Burn in hell,” she spat.

“Be thankful it wasn’t you I chose,” he sniffed with a cold kind of disinterest. “By the way, congratulations on your nuptials. Do tell Marcus I hope he enjoyed the last escort I placed him with last Sunday for the Governor’s ball. The two looked lovely together, and my girl was so pleased with his extra tip. Very generous man.”

He said it quietly enough only Delia heard, and her reaction was expected Stricken shock worked across her face as she came to grips with the depths of her own betrayal.

“I’m sure the two of you will make a marvelous couple. He does love brunettes.” Louis didn’t linger. His place was in the carriage, which was where he went after tossing Gerard a sack of coin. The man missed the catch, spilling round silver disks across the carpet. “Thirty pieces, as requested. Good day, sir.”


	3. Chapter 3

The second the carriage slowed to a reasonable stop, Louis tumbled out in a most undignified manner. He looked like a man who had gone three rounds with an alley cat. His once manicured, oiled blonde hair and trimmed suit was a mess. A smudge of blood marred his face, running diagonally from his left nostril and cutting across his cheek. Luckily, Louis’ Stone-boys took care of the raging girl in their midst while he limped towards the sprawling mansion, seeking his employer and maybe ice for his balls.

Andy was dragged from the carriage with little ceremony and even less grace, propped between two Stone-boys. Her sweaty hair hung limply over her eyes, partially disguising the redness of her cheeks, the byproduct of both exertion and the slap delivered to her when attacking Louis on her ride from the city. Her aim had been to fight her way free and take her chances in the countryside. What she hadn’t anticipated was the willowy man putting up a fight. Her miscalculation saw her clapped in shackles and gagged to prevent her from biting while snuffing the venomous language of her temper. Apparently, screaming obscenities at the Candlestick Man struck a nerve.

Arm secured behind her back, Andy was none-too-gently led from the stables into a lush courtyard at the back of a horseshoe-shaped mansion. Brief though her glimpse was, she spotted familiar breeds of flower climbing trellises or gathered around stone benches, but the most prevalent was the rose. It surpassed being a simple garden adornment and became something seen almost everywhere. In the mason-work of the gurgling fountain. In the wrought-iron fence separating the grounds from the street beyond. In the steppingstones strewn like breadcrumbs along the manicured grass.

Glancing through her disheveled hair when her feet caught on a stone, the evening sun caught the windows—a dozen or more on each of the three stories—and momentarily flashed molten orange. Shinning against sandy granite walls, the Rose Garden took on an otherworldly quality. Andy couldn’t help but stare. Her simple townhouse looked like a shanty, by comparison.

But all too quickly, the moment of awe came to an end. A simple set of double doors were pushed open and another Stone-boy appeared. He was smaller than his comrades, the gentle planes of his face and thick, shoulder-length black hair making him appear a boy, but his eyes unmasked his aged. He said nothing as Andy was walked through the door and the vestibule beyond, passing a simple oak desk with a perplexed and worried young man seated behind it. Judging by his attire and cravat, he was a Candlestick Man.

“Ex-excuse me?” the man called out, halting the party.

“Orders from Labette,” the Stone-boy on Andy’s left arm rumbled. He had a face as divided as night and day: one-half pockmarked and craggy, the other puckered with sprawling scars. The victim of a fire. “She’s to be brought to his chambers and assessed.”

“Ah,” the Candlestick Man squeaked, pulling out a fat ledger and preparing a quill. “And her name?”

“Doesn’t have one.”

The Stone-boy next to Andy husked a laugh. “Put her down as Alley Cat. She’s scrappy enough. Gave poor Louis a black eye and two black balls. Ha! Put her down as Nutcracker!” 

“Go to hell,” Andy spat, but the gag cutting cruelly into the corners of her mouth prevented her teeth and lips from connecting, garbling her words.

“Enough, Eric,” the burned Stone-boy sighed. “Don’t antagonize her. You know how much fun Labette has breaking spirited horses.”

The comment was made flippantly, but it made Andy pale. So did the unfriendly way the Stone-boy looked down at her, scared lips quirking in a half-smile.

“It’s for your sake,” he clarified with an unfriendly grin. “The harder you struggle, the worse it will be. Welcome to the Rose Garden, little Alley Cat.”

The second door to Andy’s right opened after a series of knocks. Through it, she was ushered into a world far removed from the cozy life she had known up until that moment. Servants in gray bustled along wide corridor lit with shaded oil lamps, arms filled with trays of food, toiletries, towels, sheets, pillows, and a number of other objects Andy wasn’t able to see. Among the lingering scent of delicate perfume, roses, popery, and wood smoke, the halls were tinged with the smell of baking bread and cooking food. Andy’s stomach gave a boisterous growl. She hadn’t eaten since nine that morning. It was nearly sundown.

Her gag prevented her from speaking, but if any of the servants saw her distress they chose to ignore it. These were a well-trained bunch. However, others stared. In fact, the ladies of Rose Garden stopped amidst their preparation, bodies going still. Some grew wide-eyed. Others grew cold. Some even had enough emotional depth to show pity or sympathy, but the most prevalent reaction was alarm, fingers sliding up to touch the ribbon collars around their throats. The reaction made Andy’s stomach drop through the floor. What monster waited for her at the top of this castle?

Terrified though she was, Andy couldn’t keep from staring as if she wasn’t the freak on parade. The women of the Rose Garden looked like goddesses plucked from some high holy mountain. They were as diverse as flowers in a garden—some tall, others short; some dark-skinned, others undoubtedly hailing from the Orient or the Middle East—but beauty was a necessary staple.

More than three-quarters of the women wore hardly anything at all: delicate, supple bodies clothed in sheer robes which did little to hide the curvature of their breasts, the buds of their nipples, or the dark shadow of their sex between their legs. It was so outside Andy’s social constructs she felt her face flare with heat. These magnificent creatures wore their nudity like armor, standing proud and tall as if prepared to do battle. Their makeup—expertly applied—acted as their sword. Their braided, curled, woven, or straight hair, the shield.

Once the hall was behind her and the gauntlet of eyes turned away, Andy stepped into a lift. Her accompanying Stone-boys slid the golden cage shut and threw the switch, propelling the group to the next level. This section of the house wasn’t nearly as busy and brightly lit. Rows of doors ran parallel to each other down the hall, reminding Andy of a boardinghouse.

The hallway was broken into two sections by a large sitting room with a balcony stretching past ornate double doors. The setting sun bathed the room in yellow light, glinting off hard shells of covered food trays and crystal glasses. A few ladies lingered in the room, clustering around tables and couches. Like the women downstairs, they stared in mute shock as Andy stumbled past.

“Misha, what is this?” a tall, dark-haired courtesan snapped, all but flying up from her seat and stopping the troupe. Her tan, willowy body was wrapped in a delicate green silk robe hanging wantonly off her slender shoulders.

“Orders from Labette,” the burned Stone-boy sniffed, thumbing his nose. The way his eyes raked across the woman made Andy nervous, but the courtesan paid him no mind. Instead, her brown eyes darkened, eyebrows meeting in a scowl.

“Labette hasn’t given any such order. Why is she here, Misha?”

“Since when did you become privy to Misère Labette's orders?” the scared Stone-boy said quietly between them so that only the three could hear. “Last I heard, you weren’t the Belle Rose, Izzy.”

“And last I checked, I still had the right to rip your balls off and feed them to you, or should I show you just how much influence I still have? I could even cauterize the wound for you since I know you have an affinity for fire. Do not push me, Misha.”

Andy stared dumbly at the woman. If she had the ability to hand her jaw she would have, but Misha was doing it for her. The brute straightened to his full height, attempting to appear intimidating, but he had a better chance at wringing water from a stone.

“Like I said, we have orders.”

“Which I call bullshit on. Let her go. Now.”

“Go ahead and rip their balls off,” Andy tried to growl, but again it came out as a slurred, unintelligible mumble. Her venom, however, couldn’t be missed.

“Oh-ho-ho, you see?" Eric chuckled, clearly enjoying the show. "Like a jackal with her leg caught in a snare. Vicious.”

“Are you that inept or just fucking stupid?" Izzy spat. "She's bound and gagged like a common criminal while being mocked by a hulking man-child who's balls have yet to drop. I'd be furious too.” She moved to remove Andy’s gag, sympathy showing on the planes of her exotic face, but Misha pulled her away.

“For her own protection, and yours,” he warned. “Trust me. She’s a cobra, and she’s Labette's problem. You have a problem with that take it up with him, seeing as you have so much pull here.” His sarcasm wasn't masked, nor was his sneer.

Thunder creased Izzy’s brow but whatever else she was prepared to say was cut off by a call from a servant down the hall. Torn between two duties, the woman gave Andy one last sympathetic look before walking away, waving the girls behind to follow.

Snorting something dark under his breath, Misha pulled Andy inside a second lift at the end of the hall. Sandwiched between her escorts, she suddenly couldn’t drag in enough air. Tears cut lines down Andy's face. She swayed on her feet, dizzy and nauseous. By the time the Stone-boys slid open the gate, Andy was in a full-blown panic. Her legs failed the same time her courage did, forcing the men to carry her.

In stunning contrast to the simplicity business-luxury of the first two floors, the third opened into an oval study. Plush carpets lined the floor. A fire crackled cheerily in the fireplace situated between two large windows overlooking the street below. Gas lamps burned brightly under multi-colored glass shades, the air perfumed with scents of woodsmoke, leather, and musk of male cologne.

There were two accompanying doors in the room. One on the left wall, and the other directly across from Andy. It was the left door the Stone-boys steered her towards, the brunette struggling in earnest as reality caught up with her stalling mind. There was a sick finality to that innocuous piece of wood. Once beyond the threshold, Andy would be at the mercy of whoever resided within. Fear clawed at her chest like a rabid animal, threatening to strangle her to death as it seized her lungs.

“Stop struggling,” Misha snapped, his grip like iron. He was sure to leave finger-shaped bruises once he finally let go. “Remember what I said. The more you fight the worse it will be.”

But it was impossible not to fight. Behind her gag, Andy screamed and attempted to backpedal. She couldn’t help it. She was Danial and this was the lion’s den. Stutter-stepping from a hard shove, Andy righted herself and rounded on the Stone-boy. He gave her a wink before swinging the door shut, throwing the latch in the process. Still bound and gagged, Andy charged and slammed against the door with her shoulder, momentum and gravity dragging her sobbing to the floor.

Panic took her as she huddled against the woodgrain, wide eyes taking in the semi-dark room. Any moment now a monster would emerge from one of the dark corners and she’d never see the light of day again.


	4. Chapter 4

Trembling and sore, Andy waited for the trap to spring shut. She expected a den filled with lions, but the room was a den of a different sort. Dark though it was—curtains drawn across large windows and oil lamps lit—the bedchamber was stately but lacked the luxurious flourish of the study and lower floors. This was a room where only one action took place. A four-poster bed sat like a massive hunched beast in one corner, piled high with down comforters, linen sheets, and down pillows.

 Venturing form door after it became apparent attack wasn’t imminent, Andy cautiously struggled to her feet and made her way around the chamber. The room was certainly lived in, lacking an accumulation of dust. Then again, that could have been on account of the cleaning staff. However, Andy didn’t think that was the case. Without a clock or any proper way of telling time, it was impossible to tell how long she remained in silent isolation, but it eventually came to an end.

The sound of voices kicked her heart into her throat. Andy contemplated finding a place to hide, but the frivolity of that idea hit her seconds later. Bound and gagged, she had little hope of properly fighting. Instead, she swallowed her fear.

Shadows under the edge of the door warned her someone was about to enter, but it was who came bursting through that replaced her fear with brow-scrunching confusion. The portly old woman gave Andy one solid look before she threw her bag down and rounded on the Stone-boy behind her.

“What the seven levels of hell is this?!” she shouted, pointing a bony thumb over her shoulder. “Is this some kind of joke?”

Eric, the Stone-boy, raised his hands in surrender. It was almost comical. He actually looked terrified of the woman. “We had to! She attacked Louis on the way here,” he protested lamely.

“Of course she did! That prancing fop probably deserved it! Posturing like a cock in a henhouse. What sane woman wouldn’t try to get away from him and this damnable venture of Labette's?”

 _Venture?_  Andy blinked, confusion wrinkling her brow.

“Tell me, brute, what do you think Dominic will do when he finds out you’ve put one of his girls in shackles and a gag? As far as I can tell, she’s no more a prisoner than any of the other courtesans. Could it be you were practicing your own brand of kink with a girl you haven’t paid for?”

“I…I…” the Stone-boy paled, confidence disintegrating. “No! Louis was the one who gagged her! She tried to bite him. We didn’t want her to try anything with the girls once we got here!”

Andy felt the heat of her temper rise into her cheeks. Was this what this was? Was she shackled and gagged to provide a sexual thrill for someone. The idea alone turned her murderous. 

“You’re an idiot,” the old woman spat. “Get those things off her.  _Now_!”

Leaping to action, Eric hurriedly unshackled Andy. She did the honors of removing her gag, almost weeping in relief as she threw it at the Stone-boy. Her hands itched to ball into fists, but she resisted the urge to take a swing.

“Get out,” the old woman barked. The Stone-boy was only too happy to oblige. When he was gone, she turned back around, wrinkly face crinkled in a soft smile. “I’m so very sorry for the rough treatment. The brute-squad are little more than animals these days. Stupid as drying paint.”

“Who are you?” Andy’s mouth hurt forming the words. There would be bruises on her cheeks come morning. A thousand questions jockeyed for attention, but she settled on the ones that would give her the most important information up front: namely who this withered, gnome-looking woman was, and why Andy had been brought to a bedchamber and locked inside. “Are you Labete?”

The old woman sputtered with laughter like a candle guttering in the wind. It wasn’t an unkind laugh. Merely one of deep mirth that left her snorting and tearing. “Oh, my dear, if I was, things would be so much better around here. No, my name is Grandmother.”

“That’s not a name,” Andy countered, frowning.

“It is around here,” Grandmother shrugged. She retrieved her bag by the door and set it on a stool near the vanity. “All the girls call me that.Labette calls me that. So therefore the name stuck. I am the Rose Garden’s physician.”

A woman physician. Andy didn’t know whether this was an inside joke she wasn’t privy too or Grandmother being serious. The idea wasn’t entirely outlandish. Midwives and nurses were as prevalent as blacksmiths or tailors, but they didn’t go around calling themselves physicians or doctors. It was illegal for a woman to carve another human being.

Andy’s skepticism must have shown because Grandmother chuckled warmly as she went about removing tools from her bag and stuffing the pockets of her white apron with essentials.

“I know what you’re thinking. Every girl reacts the same way. I must be a midwife trying to be something I’m not. Might be a little deranged,” Grandmother tapped her temple, mischief in her milky green eyes. “Well, dear one, those in the Company of Surgeons said the same thing. But that’s just between you and me,” she winked. 

Andy didn’t quite know how to respond, so instead, she asked her next question. “If you’re not Labette, why am I here?”

“I can’t answer that. Labette has his own reasons, to be sure, but best not summon the beast too quickly, my dear. Enjoy the peace while it lasts.”

It wasn’t as if Grandmother had openly threatened her, but for whatever reason, Andy took the warning to mean something darker. She backed away from the woman, trembling now from head to heel. Dark scenarios touched her mind, sinister and cruel. Why would Labete need a physician if not to care for the girls he harmed? Was that going to be her fate? Was that why the other girls looked at her with pity and fear.

Andy began to hyperventilate. The room was becoming too small, her slamming heart too big for her chest.

“Calm down, child,” Grandmother soothed, watching the girl become almost transparently pale. “There’s nothing to fear here.”

“How can you say that?” Andy squeaked, clutching the front of her dress with knuckle-white fingers. Her struggle to remain calm lasted a moment more before coming to an abrupt and choking end. “I don’t know where I am! I don’t know what’s going on! This morning, I was cooking dinner for my sisters, and now I’m in a whorehouse in God-knows-where waiting on a man who purchased me like I’m nothing more than a choice cut of meat!” Her tears flowed fast down her cheeks. Sobs strangled her each time she tried to speak. “I want to go home. I don’t want to be here! I’m…I’m…”

Andy buckled. Her knees hit the floor. Hunch in half, she cried into her hands. It was too much. Fear threatened to tear her apart unless she bled it from her system, but tapping a vein was a painful process.

“My father sold me,” she cried. “He sold me like I meant nothing. He—he was my  _father_. How could he do that to one of his  _children_? How could Delia betray me like that? What did I do wrong?”

Squatting beside her, Grandmother rubbed Andy’s back while she disintegrated even though her heart couldn’t exactly go out to her. This wasn’t the first time she’d seen something like this. Girls in this line of work often cried. Andy was a freshly plucked flower. The sting of her forced uprooting would linger for months, perhaps even years.

“There, there, get it out,” the withered old woman shushed. “You’ll be all right.”

Once Andy calmed enough to stand, Grandmother announced she would commence with her examination. When Andy looked at her strangely through puffy, red-rimmed eyes, Grandmother patted her arm reassuringly. “I’m not here to watch any harm come to you, child. Despite what you think, women in the Garden aren’t abused. You’re safer here than any maiden on the streets, let me tell you. Now, stand in the lamplight for me. I need to get a good look at you.”

Having little energy to do much else, Andy obeyed and did as Grandmother instructed. The old woman checked her skin for rashes and bumps. She checked her hands for callouses and her feet for fungus. She checked the dexterity of her fingers and the rotation of her joints. She even checked her teeth for rot, her gums for sores, and her hair for lice. Noting was left untouched.

“Why does everyone assume I have lice?” Andy sniffed, seated on a stool while Grandmother fished through her hair with bony fingers and a fine-toothed comb. 

“It’s not very common for a young lady to wear such a short style,” she replied. “Most girls shave their heads when the little creatures move in. I had to ask.”

“I sold my hair for debt money.” Her bitterness as acidic.

Grandmother paused, appraising eyes searching Andy’s face. “That was…very forward-thinking of you. Most women wouldn’t have thought of that, or had the courage to go through with it.”

“A lot of good it did me,” Andy muttered. Thoughts of her father fed the growing black hole in her chest, so she did her best to push him and her sisters from her mind. Still, she worried for Charlotte. Would Gerard sell her too? Andy’s stomach turned sourly.

“Well, look at it this way. It’s just hair. It’ll grow back in less than a year.”

Preliminary examination finished, Grandmother stepped back and asked Andy to remove her clothes so she could finish. At this, the young woman balked, become fearful once more. “I have to check all of you, dear.”

“You’ve seen all of me.”

“I’ve seen the surface. I need to see what’s under the skin of the fruit.” When Andy shook her head vigorously, Grandmother sighed and sat back on her heels. “My dear—“

“Andy. Please just…just use my name.”

“Andy,” Grandmother amended, tilting her head. “This is a part of the process. I need to see you undressed. I also need to check you for venereal diseases. It’s how we keep things clean here at the Garden. All the girls go through this. Be thankful I’m giving you a private screening, but if it comes down to it, I will call in the brute squad. I know your dignity has been bruised today. Don’t make this any worse for yourself.”

Much as she hated to admit it, Grandmother was right. Her wrists and cheeks still ached from the bonds she had been forced to wear. Even with the ointment the physician provided, there would be bruises, shallow ponds of discoloration floating against otherwise healthy skin. The last thing she wanted was to be touched by the Stone-boys, but that didn’t keep her hands from shaking when she slid off the straps of her bodice. Her fingers fumbled the lacing. When at last the knot was undone, Andy stepped out of her simple dress, letting the fabric pool on the floor. The warm weather hadn’t warranted the addition of stockings or bloomers. She shivered despite the room’s comfortable temperature, hugging her middle.

Grandmother was gentle. Her aged hands didn’t linger as they check the fullness of Andy’s breasts, the gentle slope of her hips, and the curvature of her buttocks. She used a measuring tape for most of it, puttering around like a stooped tailor.

At twenty, Andy was a lithe woman, but she felt she lacked the natural beauty of her older sister and the energetic charm of her younger sibling. It wasn’t that she was plain, but if passed on the street, it was unlikely someone would recall her face or body.

She was of average height and build, wide in the shoulders and slender in the hips. Her face wasn’t round like Charlotte’s or touch with baby-fat, instead boxy in the jaw and full in the cheeks. She had a slender neck but lacked the Babineaux hooked nose. Where Delia filled out her bodices and corsets, Andy was significantly less endowed. The planes of her stomach were smooth but lacked any toning or definition one would expect to find on someone who fancied horseback riding as a hobby.

But there were small thing Andy enjoyed about her features. Neither of her sisters possessed the dusting of light freckles across the tops of their shoulders like earth-bound constellations. Her average height made her unassuming, and her wide mouth and full lips articulated smirks and grins with ease. Then there were her eyes. A majority of the color was brown, but around her pupils clung a wreath of green. A gift from her mother, who had eyes the color of polished jade.

While she worked, Grandmother marked in a ledger left open on the vanity beside them. It was too dark for Andy to see what she was scribbling, but it wasn’t hard to puzzle out. Each time the old woman grabbed, stroked, pinches, touched, tapped, or stared she would quickly jot something down. Andy was being examined as thoroughly as if she were a breeding mare, worth valued based on her body. The realization made her shrink inside. To be whittled down to aesthetic worth was a hard tonic to swallow.

The hardest exam to muscle through was the internal one. Grandmother slipped on a pair of thin silk gloves and instructed Andy to recline on the chaise lounge. “It will be quick,” she reassured her. Swiftness did little to blunt the sharp stab of embarrassment when those wizened hands slipped inside her. Andy’s jaw clenched. She held back a whimper and a twitch as Grandmother probed, forcing her eyes to remain on the dark ceiling until it was done. As always, the old woman was thorough, checking pubic hair for lice and skin for signs of disease or abnormalities. 

“Well,” Grandmother exhaled after retreating to write something in her book. “You pass on all accounts.”

Andy couldn’t find it in herself to muster a smile. She stooped to pick up her clothes, but Grandmother presented her with a thick cotton robe instead.

“The Master is picky about the clothes his girls wear. I’m sure he’ll send for the tailor in the morning.”

“So I’m stranded in a robe until then?” Such a flimsy piece of fabric, when she thought about it. Only a sash securing it closed. How easily it could be ripped aside. How easily she could be disarmed.

Grandmother shrugged. “Might as well get used to it. Modesty isn’t something commonplace in this house.”

“What am I going to do?” The question wasn’t directed at Grandmother. It was a personal query asked in a quiet exhale, posed by the truly lost. A cast lifeline into the darkness.

“I assume you’re going to work,” Grandmother said simply, taking the most direct route to an answer.

Andy swallowed. “You mean become a…” the word stuck in her throat. “I’ve—I’ve never even been with a man.”

“You don’t have to tell me, dear. I just checked, remember?” Grandmother snorted, repacking her bag. “But I assume since Labette purchased you himself, you aren’t going to simply be another rose in his garden. Our Master doesn’t share well. If he bought you, you’re his.”

“I’m no one’s property,” Andy spat venomously, rounding on the woman. “Why does no one understand that? People aren’t pretty toys you can trade and sell!”

Grandmother stopped what she was doing and slowly stood. She didn’t turn, but Andy saw her touch something hidden under the folds of her frock. “Did you have servants at your home?”

Andy blinked. It was a question with an obvious answer. “Yes.”

“And these men and women who make your life easier, were they paid?”

“Father and Mother always prided themselves—“

“Yes or no, dear.”

“No,” Andy frowned, unsure where this was going. “They are given access to our kitchens and food supplies. My family paid for their housing and essentials.”

“I assume they cooked your food, tended to your home, washed your clothes, and did the menial tasks beneath a woman of your station?” Was that spite Andy heard in Grandmother’s voice, or sadness?

“Yes.”

“But who made the fabric for your clothes? Who mined the ore for your horse’s shoes? Who made the dye for your fabrics? Who pulled the carrots from the ground? Who bled for the diamonds in your jewelry or the gold in your rings?”

Grandmother finally turned, her expression blank. “You’re right. People shouldn’t own people, but it’s sad when the only way we can live in comfort is by stepping on the backs of those we view as less than us. The machine runs on the toil and blood of slaves, and you are part of that process now.”

“I am no slave!” Andy bristled. “I didn’t consent to this!”

“Consent has nothing to do with this. You believe yourself above such stations. You’re wrong. Your father sold you to Labette. The contract is binding. You belong to him now. You are a servant, whether you like it or not.”

The thought appalled Andy. “So, what, I forfeit my rights and dignity? I become nothing more than a decoration for his arm, or a body for him to pleasure himself with?”

“You do what you must to survive,” Grandmother replied tersely. “That is all a woman can do in the world.”

“I refuse,” Andy simpered, shoulders hunching. She was fit to spitting. “I refuse to submit to the likes of a glorified pimp. Labette doesn’t own me, and neither did my father. Contract or not, I will never be his property or let him use me as entertainment.”

“My, such spirit. It certainly rouses the blood.”

Both women turned towards the door, but only one felt her body run cold.

He was so quiet. Andy hadn’t even heard the door open—oiled hinges no doubt—but the man she expected to find attached to the low, rumbling voice wasn’t a man at all. He was a mountain. Framed in the light from the study behind him, his bulk damn near took up the entire doorway. He had to stoop to entered the chamber.

“Andy, may I present Dominic Labette, head of the Rose Garden,” Grandmother said, stepping aside but remaining close as if sensing the predatory nature of this visit.

“Louis wasn’t exaggerating. You are an alley cat,” Dominic flashed his teeth in a wide grin “But I have to wonder how much of this is posturing?”

His approach was far too fluid for a man of his size, steps silent like a stalking cat. Broad shoulders, powerful arms, and a head taller than most men, Dominic looked more Stone-boy than the head of a prostitution enterprise, but there was no mistaking the air of command that hung from him. Dominic stopped well within the confines of Andy’s personal space, and she realized with a start this wasn’t Daniel and the lion’s den. This was David and Goliath.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Andrea Babineaux,” Labette crooned, taking Andy’s hand. The heat of his lips brushing her knuckles made her want to flinch away. Compared to the mitt of his hand, hers looked like a toy. Dominic’s cold blue eyes caught and held Andy’s, and she swallowed hard.

She was the hare.

He was the wolf.

The hunt had begun. 


	5. Chapter 5

“I’m going to charge you for that ice.” Labete didn’t look up from what he was reading as he spoke. Skimming reports, he looked like a gargoyle hunched over his desk. The sight would have been comical had his chair and desk not matched his mountainous size. Say one thing for Dominic Labete, he was a big man.

Part library, part study, the room right off the third floor’s main chamber was where Dominic conducted most of his business. Gas lamps burned in frosted glass shunts, lending the area a warm glow. The fireplace situated between two stone lions remained unlit and cold. Due to the baths and the steam traveling through pipes, there was no need to heat his office, ensuring it remained comfortably warm all winter.

Sprawled undignified in a chair across from him like a hawk with a broken wing, Louis shot his friend of nearly two decades a withering look. His suit was unkempt and torn. His hair a mess. He bore scratches on his neck and mud on his once immaculate shoes. The front of his pants had been unbuttoned, lending him access to the part of his body aching the most. The bag of ice resting carefully in the crook between his legs did little to lessen the throbbing ache, and if he concentrated hard enough, Louis imagined he could feel the imprint of Andy’s heel. It was a miserable, inescapable pain.

“Legitimately suck my left tactical,” Louis snapped, his nausea was only just now starting to abate.  

“I don’t think you want my mouth anywhere near your grapes,” Labete sniffed, trying hard not to crack a smile while he read an unhappy expense report. “Talk to Daniel. He’ll be more than happy to kiss them better.”

Louis saw the sparkle in Labete’s blue eyes and bared his teeth. Pain made him irritable.

“These aren’t grapes between my legs anymore, Dominic! I have raisins! Shriveled, black and blue, shrieking raisins!”

“You could have Grandmother take a look. In case the girl tore something…irreplaceable.”

“The last thing I want are her spider fingers down my trousers,” Louis shivered. “Makes me feel sacrilegious. And if you so much as laugh, I’ll piss in this ice-bag and make you drink it.”

Labete shrugged, helpless in his mirth. “Can’t be any worse than the backwater gin you bought off that Dutchman,” he teased and was rewarded when Louis screwed up his face in disgust.

“Thank you for tapping that particularly bad memory. I had only just begun to forget the taste of paint thinner.”

“Well then, let us forget our distaste and personal aches by tasting something smoother.” Labete rose from his chair and crossed the room to the liquor cabinet. From a shelf, he retrieved a crystal decanter filled with golden liquid and two matching glasses. “There’s nothing a well-made brandy can’t cure, physical ailments included.” One-handed, he poured Louis a generous cup while only putting a dash into his own.

The Candlestick Man gave his friend a pointed look but took the offering. “You’re worse than a banker with your liquor. Will you ever finish off that bottle?”

“Unlike you, I drink only for recreation,” Labete countered, sipping his drink as he hitched his hip on the edge of the desk. He made a face close to a grimace when the warm liquor touched his tongue. “I apologize for the lack of ice. Seems it’s gone to better use.”

“You take three shots to the dick and tell me you wouldn’t hoard all the ice in this house,” Louis snorted and took a long pull from his glass. Unlike his friend, he wasn’t as sparing with his liquor. What honest Candlestick Man would be? Wine, women, and revelry were their bread and butter. They paid homage to Bacchius almost weekly.

Labete made a dismissive gesture. “All this whining over one girl who just happened to have good aim?”

“Aim?” Louis echoed. “Aim? She was a mule in another life! Scratch that. She was an alley cat. That’s what the Stone-boys are calling her. God knows I’ve got the scratches and bruises to prove their point.” Jerking down the collar of his shirt, he showed Labete the raised red scratch marks left behind from Andy’s nails. “And those are the ones you _can_ see. I think she might have broken one of my ribs.”

“So you picked a good one, then?”

“I picked the only one available,” he retorted, speaking into his glass. The brandy was making a pleasantly warm nest in his stomach. “And believe me, she wasn’t my first choice. Though looking back, even the eldest daughter had fire in her.”

Louis watched Dominic carefully out of his peripheral vision. The mirth in his eyes cooled quickly. It was like watching a pond freeze.

“You had three to choose from.” 

“Gerard had three daughters, yes,” Louis agreed, shifting into a more comfortable position, resting his glass atop the ice-bag. “What he neglected to tell you was that one was barely thirteen. The other was already promised, or so she claimed.”

Darkness crept into Labete’s face. Men caught lying in his presence were men who willingly forfeited their life. One did not lie to Dominic Labete. “Did you investigate the legitimacy of that claim?”

The Candlestick Man barked with laughter, but the sharp movement of his chest made his groin twinge. He winced a moment later. “And make you wait? No, I know better. You wanted one of Gerard’s daughters by sundown, so I went and fetched her.”

Silence filled the office. Louis continued to recline, but he couldn’t ignore the tension. Labete, by nature, was a man of quiet anger. Like a lit fuse, he could smolder for hours before the moment of explosion. God help any who were near enough to feel the heat of his rage when it reached a boiling point.

“Seems I might have to pay Gerard a visit. Personally.” There was promise in Labete’s voice, dark and sinister.

“To what end?” the Candlestick Man drawled, thinly hiding his distaste for the entire situation. “You’ve already purchased the girl. Gerard will never agree to sign another contract.”

“He lied to me,” Labete growled, brandy glass forgotten. The hands resting on his thighs slowly closed into tight, ham-sized fists. “You were to have a choice between his daughters. There was only one available.”

“Gerard likely lied to save his own skin or the fate of his girls. It’s hard to tell with that man, but I pity the poor alley cat for drawing the short stick twice in one day.”

“So you’re defending him now?” The accusation was as hot as it was sharp, but unlike the rest of the staff, Louis met it head-on with a cold anger of his own.

“No, I am not. Nor am I defending this pointless endeavor you’ve embarked on. This isn’t our way, Labete. We do not purchase women like cattle. They come to us, so forgive me if I’m an unwilling participant who doesn’t take sides with this one.”

Faced with the truth, Dominic snorted loudly through his nose and dislodged from the desk, unwilling to follow the train of conversation, but Louis wasn’t finished.

“Please tell me the purpose of all this?” the Candlestick Man called as Dominic stalked to the door like a bull about to charge.

“Something was taken from me,” he rumbled with brittle finality, turning once more to face his friend. Louis was watching him over the top of his chair. “So I took something in return. That is the way of the world.”

“Vengeance?” Louis almost spat the word. “That’s what’s driving you now? Or are you functioning under the belief this is justly deserved retribution against Celest?”

At the mention of his disgraced and banished Belle Rose, Dominic bristled. “Celest knew what she was doing. She was my Belle Rose. She belonged _to me_ , and she betrayed _me_. This is about taking what I am owed.”

“And that’s the life of an innocent bystander?” Louis challenged. “You branded Celest and sent her away. She was justly punished for her breach of contract. But you weren’t satisfied. Why?”

“Gerard knew who she was, but he gambled all the same. I’m sending a message. No one takes what is mine without consequence.”

“So you decided you’d take one of his daughters to prove a point? Andrea doesn’t know a damn thing about our world! She’s not been trained. She hasn’t risen through the ranks to become your Belle Rose.”

“And she won’t. No one will. After the mess Celest made, I will never take another Belle Rose.”

“You’re completely missing the point!” Louis’ rise from the chair was slow, but he managed. “Dominic, I’m going to speak frankly, and I want you to listen. I’m your closest friend. How long have we been in business together?” He silenced Labete’s attempt to respond with a wave of the hand. “It was rhetorical. The point is, I know when you’re thinking clearly, and this whole vendetta is pointless. You could have charged him an astronomical fee for sleeping with Celest. You could have broken his legs. You could have seized his land, but instead, you chose to take one of his daughters as payment. That’s not good business. That’s not how things are done around here. What would Jacqueline say if she saw this?”

Cold though his anger was, Labete’s dark stare turned thunderous. How quickly the tides could turn from friendly banter to dangerous encounter. “Do not bring her into this, Louis. Do not ever use her to win an argument against me, and do not presume to know what is best for me and _my_ business.”

“You’re a stubborn jackass, you know that?”

“And you’re a prancing fop,” Dominic retorted without turning back, hand on the doorknob. “We all have our flaws.”

“Where are you going?”

“To appraise the property I just bought. I want to see for myself if this girl is worth the headache.”

“Don’t put her in a room with a client,” Louis called, massaging his temples.

Dominic stalled. “What makes you think I’ll place her anywhere?”

“Take it as unsolicited advice. She’s a wild animal. If you put Andrea in a room with a man, she’ll likely kill someone. The last thing we need is another Costa situation.”

Labete left the office without a word, not bothering to close the door behind him. Louis would show himself out. Pausing outside the door to his room, Labete took a moment to collect himself. In all things, he had to be in control. That included his temper. As a new addition to his garden, Andrea needed reigning in, and that couldn’t happen if it appeared he was emotionally compromised. Two quick breaths centered him. A third woke his customary half-smile. The fourth shut down his emotions and left him feeling blessedly cool.

Beyond the thick wooden door, he could hear two women talking and used the distraction to make his entrance. The handle flicked down without a sound. Hinges moved without protest. He moved like a ghost. As expected, his sudden appearance had an arresting effect. Andrea Babineaux, fiery despite her situation, fell deathly silent upon seeing him. It was a reaction Dominic was accustomed to. Few could match his size and seeing her reaction further spread his grin. There was power in fear as much as there was control.

Standing off to the side, Grandmother saw his smile. Her face soured. She knew what he was doing and clearly didn’t approve, but introductions were made. Dominic leveled his eyes on Andrea and stepped closer. She was a slight thing, average in height but not necessarily in looks. Louis hadn’t been exaggerating. There was fire in her eyes and stubbornness in the set of her shoulders. This girl was an alley cat. She was a fighter, albeit an inexperienced one. It was difficult for Labete to decide whether or not that was a good thing.


	6. Chapter 6

Andy held herself as rigid as possible. She feared sudden movement would provoke an attack. The man was mountainous— more than a head and a half taller than she was. It was hard to fathom something so large could be considered human. When he stood in front of her, Andy barely reached the center of his chest, flat-footed. In heels, she would have reached the hollow of his throat. His eyes were the coldest blue she had ever seen, matching the cool blue of his fitted tunic.

“I welcome you to the Rose Garden,” Dominic made a gesture to the room around him. Andy said nothing. Even if she wanted to, the words stuck in her throat. She was having trouble digesting who her new owner was. Hell, she was having trouble digesting the idea she was _owned_.

Labete held her gaze from an unseemly long period of time until Andy couldn’t bear the weight and looked away. Her surrender, slight though it was, prompted Dominic to grin smugly and continue. She jumped when he snapped his fingers, heart in her throat, but the gesture wasn’t meant for her. Grandmother handed over her notes before sliding out of range. Her eyes, however, never moved away from Andy.

“Grandmother’s notes are thorough,” Labete hummed after a moment, thumbing through the pages with slow appreciation. “You appear to come from good stock. Your measurements are fair. You are free of parasites, bugs, or venereal diseases.” While he spoke, Dominic began circling her, close enough to make Andy uncomfortable. It was a delicate game he played.

“You appear to be a virgin.” At this, he looked up, dark eyebrows rising into his hairline. Something twinkled in his eyes, and he tisked. “At twenty? My poor girl. That is unfortunate. Almost as unfortunate as your short hair. Lice?”

Andy bit into her cheek but couldn’t hide her flush as Labete ran his fingers through her hair, testing the strands. It took everything in her not to jerk her head away out of reflex.

“She sold her hair to pay her father’s debts,” Grandmother answered, saving Andy the indignation of explaining, yet again, why she sported short hair.

Labete made a sound in the back of his throat that might have been a laugh or a snort. It was hard to tell. “Ah, that is ironic. The daughter throwing a lifeline to the father. Tell me, how well did that work out for you?”

If Dominic was attempting to get a rise out of her, he certainly knew what buttons to push. Andy felt the heat in her cheeks spread to her chest. Her hands clenched into tight fists at her side. Kicking her while she was down, that was exactly what Labete was doing. Rubbing salt in the wound. It was enough to boil Andy’s blood, but she knew he was expecting this. He wanted her to respond, wanted her to make the first move so he could counter it with a more powerful. Andy knew better. Living with a drunk for a father, she knew the game. Silence was her sharpest weapon and strongest shield. Without words, she robbed Labete of means to hurt her. Without actions, she left him without an opportunity to show his dominance.

After a stretch, Labete continued where he left off. “Yes, all things check out, though this was just a preliminary exam. Your real worth will be measured in more creative exercises. Louis did a marvelous job selecting you, though you really didn’t have a choice in the matter, did you? A pity your older sister was taken. Though I’m sure her marriage will be a beautiful one.”

Perhaps Andy wasn’t as good at playing the game as she thought.

“Out of the three of us, she had the most to live for,” she muttered. Her gaze remained locked on the wall adjacent to her, but the words and the lie attached to them burned like acid in her mouth. What was Delia’s future compared to hers? Why had her sister betrayed her so quickly? The pain brewing in her chest hurt more than the bruises on her wrists. It hurt more than the bruises to her pride. Betrayal was like a blade to the stomach. The pain was abysmal, and the bleed-out agonizingly slow.

“Playing the martyr? What a noble sentiment.”

“More like accepting my fate,” Andy retorted quietly.

“Good girl,” Labete breathed into her ear, making Andy squirm. He was standing directly behind her with his chin almost resting on her shoulder. She could feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric of her robe. “The faster you bend the better off you’ll be. If not, I’ll find a way to make you…flexible.”

Panic wasn’t far from reach. Andy could feel it welling up again like a shaken champagne bottle. She was defenseless. She was damn-near naked. In her mind, she couldn’t escape the terrible anticipation that Labete would drive her to the floor and ravish her like an animal. It was in a beast’s nature to devour lesser creatures. He was going to hurt her, and he was going to enjoy it. Andy could hear the pleasure in his voice without turning to face him. Dominic Labete was a demon. The fear was so palpable, Andy almost pissed down her leg.

Determined to keep from giving her new master what he wanted, Andy hastily summoned the image of the gargoyles she had seen as a child when visiting Notre Dame. Sullen. Steadfast. Emotionless. Those hunched figures stared down at the streets below without a care for the ants under their gaze. They were implacable, and unless she hardened herself, unless she became stone, there would be no survival.

“I guess you would like to know why you are here?” Andy didn’t answer. She was stone. Stone didn’t talk. Labete noticed the subtle change and leaned in close, snatching her chin. “It is impolite not to answer a direct question.”

“My father took something from you. You took me in return,” Andy replied mechanically. His face was so close she could smell the oils he rubbed into his skin after shaving. The scent nauseated her.

“Good. At least we are on the same page. With that out of the way, I will explain what will be expected of you while you’re here.”

“To whore myself, I imagine.” She couldn’t stop from saying it, but silence would have served her better.

Dominic chuckled and gave her an amused look. “If that is what you wish, I can make accommodations. I’m sure we can find a place for you even if you are….untouched. Men would pay well to bed and break a virgin.” When his threat failed to rouse the desired response, Dominic shrugged and pressed on.

“Business hours begin at sundown. All girls are to be in their rooms before their first appointment. The lowest level of the house is for client interaction only. No man, save for my personal staff, Candlestick Men, Coal-boys, or Stone-boys, are permitted on the second floor at any time. We work from sundown to sunrise. My girls can service anywhere from three to seven men a night. All appointment are logged by the Candlestick Men. If you do not have any clients that evening, you are to remain on the second floor. In your case, you will remain here on the third floor.”

Again, Andy said nothing. Dominic paced, abandoning intimidation. Hands clasped behind his back, he spoke to her with the plainness of a king speaking to a servant. There was no love here. Only duty and obedience.

“You will be required to obtain a new wardrobe. All new courtesans to the Rose Garden are given three dresses. One informal, casual-wear dress. One evening gown. One formal gown. The tailors will be here tomorrow to take proper measurements. Breakfast is served at sundown. Dinner at sunrise. As heralds of the night, we work in opposites. The moon is our sun, and the sun our moon.  

“The women of my garden are permitted one day of rest a week. Sundays are for recuperation, as the good book commands.” Andy heard Grandmother snort, her eye-roll audible. “It is also the only day my courtesans are allowed into town to purchase necessary luxuries. They are always escorted by Stone-boys. You will be assigned a Stone-boy tomorrow. Any attempts to leave prematurely or without sanction will be dealt with swiftly.”

The light burning in Andy’s eyes extinguished a little, but she couldn’t help feel a surge of hope. Escape wasn’t an impossibility. There was still a chance. But it would have been better not to hope. Dominic must have seen or felt the shift in her demeanor and, like a predator smelling a fresh wound, he pounced.

“Girls found not following my rules are punished directly,” he said, stopping once more in front of her. There wasn’t a need to raise her chin. “Minor offenses are dealt with through withheld payments and revoked town visits. Major offenses are more harshly punished. Girls found running from me are branded and banished to lower brothels. And believe me, there isn’t a place on earth you can hide where I can’t find you.”

Andy felt her body go cold. Just like that, hope died a screaming death in the pit of her stomach.

Satisfied his point was made, Dominic walked to a low nightstand next to the chaise and withdrew a lacquered box from one of the drawers. He spoke again as she lifted the box’s lid and withdrew something Andy couldn’t see.

“The rules of my garden are simple. If you follow them, your life here will be a peaceful one. Not easy, no life is, but there is money to be made and luxuries to enjoy. However, there is one rule all my girls must follow without compromise.”

Labete casually tossed the box onto his bed. What he held in his hand made Andy’s world tilt, her vision fuzzing around the edges. The shine of the straight razor lent its wicked edge a sinister gleam. Flicked out with practiced precision, Dominic took a moment to admire the blade. His eyes might as well have been made of the same razor-sharp steel.

Involuntarily, Andy backed away. It was hard to remain stone when reminded of the fragility of flesh.

“Come now, why so frightened?” Labete grinned, teasingly. His advance pushed Andy back further. “It’s only a razor.”

“Dominic!” Grandmother’s voice was a whip crack, and like a whip, the big man jerked under the lash. “That’s enough. Stop tormenting the poor girl.”

It wasn’t anger that passed over Labete’s face when he turned. Displeasure, to be sure, colored with irksome irritation. He didn’t scowl or shout her to silence. Instead, he held her gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary before shrugging as if not surprised the joke had gone over everyone’s head.

“Come with me.”   

Andy couldn’t get her legs to move. She was able to follow Labete with her eyes, but that was the extent her petrification would allow. Perhaps she _had_ become stone. Then why were there tears welling in her eyes? Hysteria bloomed like an ugly flower. She was feeling faint but knew if the world faded to black she would never awaken again. Her heart would well and truly stop.

“It’s all right,” Grandmother soothed gentility. Andy jumped when the old woman placed a hand on her back. She couldn’t catch her breath. “Remember what I told you. Do everything to survive.”

All she could do was vigorously shake her head, but Andy’s hesitation only lent the tension more friction. Labete paused before a smaller door across the room, his broad back facing her. Even in the low light, she could see his muscles tensing like cords of twisted steel.

“I told you to come!” His shout cut across the room like the crack of gunfire.

“She’s not a dog, Dominic!” Grandmother fired back, gripping Andy’s forearm. Whether it was for her own balance or to reassure the trembling woman went unsaid. “And what woman would honestly follow a man holding a razor? Explain to her what you want. She can’t read your mind!”

Dominic turned with a snap. There hadn’t been anger in his eyes before but there was now. Like watching a friendly dog turn suddenly vicious. He bared his white teeth, face scrunched, but caught the slip in his otherwise perfect demeanor and mastered himself. The transformation chilled Andy to her core. 

“You have a point, Grandmother,” he conceded. “Perhaps I was unclear.” Walking back, Labete stopped once more in front of Andy. “Or perhaps our young Andrea has forgotten her place already and would prefer her shackles again. I’m not above using them. Or would a collar and leash better suite you? The choice is yours. Either follow me without question, or I’ll drag you around this house at the end of a rope.”

The validity of his threat was sound. Andy nodded.

“You will do as I say when I say it. Is that clear?” Another nod, but it wasn’t enough. “Say it out loud.”

“I…y-yes.”

 “Then follow me.”

Beyond a non-descript door next to a bare bookshelf was a washroom of sorts, only this one more closely resembled a Roman bathhouse. To say it was opulent would have been a gross understatement. This was a den of luxury dripping in marble and colorful tile.

Set at the top of a three-step marble dais at the back of the room was a square bath big enough to occupy five people with relative ease. Water supplied through a hidden pipe-system ensured the bath was filled quickly. Intricate mosaics arranged in blue tiles unrolling underfoot. Faux pillars lined the walls, framing delicate frescos of Tuscan villas. The back right of the room was dominated by a large corner of white tile laid around a roaring marble lion head suspended in the wall. The beast had been expertly rendered, every detail lending the smooth stone a lifelike appearance. Its mouth, eyes, and fangs had been bronzed, matching the drain centered beneath it.

It was towards the lion Labete led Andy until Grandmother pulled him to a stop, her face furious. She stepped into him so only he could hear her speak.

“What do you think you’re playing at?” The grip of her fingers around his forearm was surprisingly tight for a woman her age. There was no need to guess what she was talking about.

“She put up quite a fight coming here,” Dominic replied, eyes roving over Andy as she stood gawking at the décor.

“So you’re trying to scare her into submission? Is that how you operate now? That’s not the Labete I know or the man I work for.”

“I’m making a point,” he frowned. “I will be obeyed.”

“You’re being a petulant tyrant! The girl is terrified, and you’re planning on putting a razor in her hands. Might as well put a gun in her mouth while you’re at it since you seem to value your property so highly. Why even bother buying her if you’re going to just watch her accidentally slit a vein and bleed to death?”

“Who said I was letting her do anything?” Dominic’s skepticism was mirrored in the arch of his dark eyebrow. Grandmother looked as if she might snarl something more but promptly shut her mouth. Judging by the darkness marring her wrinkled face, the old woman’s ranting was far from over.

Shrugging Grandmother off, Labete retrieved a wooden stool and set it next to the drain under the lion head. On this, Andy was to sit. She didn’t. Beside the head hung a series of ropes recessed into the wall: red, blue, yellow, white. Labete grabbed the red cord and pulled once. A moment later, to Andy’s complete surprise, water began pouring from the lion’s open maw, hot enough to steam. The novelty of such a sight was robbed from her when Labete took her hand roughly in his and went to slap the razor in her palm only to hesitate at the last second.

“On second thought, giving you this isn’t the best idea,” he said, tapping the closed razor against his lips. “After the hell you gave Louis, I couldn’t very well trust you with a razor.”

With a flip, the tool clicked open, bright metal gleaming in the gas light. Andy flinched, but her eyes didn’t leave the hard edge. Labete smiled knowingly.

“See, I know that look,” he mused. “You want this, and you want to slide it across my neck.” He pantomimed the motion. “We can’t have that, and I couldn’t possibly dirty your hands with the blood of the likes of me. I’m afraid the stain would never come out. Now, your robe. Please remove it.”

His smile was kind whereas his eyes were not. Andy didn’t immediately leap to obey. Her robe was her last line of defense.

“Remember my warning, Andrea,” Labete cautioned.

Once nimble fingers, now clumsy with the shake of raw emotions, worked at the knot securing her robe closed. With a shrug of her shoulders, the silk cloth fell to the floor in a whisper of expensive fabric.

“Arms, underarms, legs, stomach, and crotch,” Labete explained, pointing to each place with the blade. “All of it is to be shaved and remained shaved. For now, since I cannot, in good faith, trust you with a razor, I will be doing the honors of hair removal.”

Teeth clenched so hard her black molars ached, Andy forced herself to nod. It seemed an impossible errand, but the look on Labete’s face brooked no argument. And what sane woman would argue with a man holding a blade sharp enough to part a vein without notice?

Leaving her for a moment, Labete crossed the room to a series of marble shelves built into the wall around multiple oval mirrors. An array of make-ups, brushes, and bowls had been laid out by size order across the counter. Andy distantly wondered whether or not everything on the vanity belonged to some other poor woman.

“I believe it goes without saying, but don’t move,” he smiled at her, returning with a bowl and an application brush.

Whipping the lather into a dense foam, Labete set to work doing what Andy knew she couldn’t. His skill with the razor was one of practiced ease. Stroke by stroke, he began with her left arm, leaving behind smooth skin. Andy held herself as still as possible, barely able to bring herself to breathe. Labete moved swiftly, his hands never still. While he worked, he asked questions. The sting of humiliation and the cold dread of fear leaving her numb, Andy resigned herself to answering in monosyllabics.

“You have the legs of a danger. Do you dance often?”

“No.”

Lather, scrape, scrape, scrape. Lather, scrape.

“A pity. I can tell by your stance and the toning of your torso you also ride horses.” It wasn’t a question, so she didn’t answer. “Any particular breed?”

“No.”

Lather, scrape. Labete didn’t ask many questions pertaining to her family, leaving them vague and easily answerable. It was unclear whether or not it was for her benefit or his. In no time, Andy was hairless in places she had only known to be hairy, but the hardest part was yet to come.

“Lift your leg,” he instructed, dragging the stool over. Andy did, but couldn’t keep her startled gasp locked behind her teeth when his big hands smeared lather across the front of her groin and slid between her folds. Her face flared scarlet, and her stomach rolled.

“Do. Not. Move.”

Andy refrained from nodding. It was technically moving.

The kiss of the razor against such a sensitive area was like mistakenly touching the handle of a hot pan. The urge to dart away made every nerve scream all at once. Andy screwed her eyes shut and held her breath, wishing this was just a horrible dream. It wasn’t. Her dreams were never this cruel. Standing still was torture. Having a stranger spread her legs and touch her was torture. Feeling Labete’s breath on her bare thighs was torture.

Like a painter in front of a canvas, Labete worked carefully, laying down one short stroke at a time. Resting on his knees rather than risking a squat—lest his balance warble—he was methodical, spreading Andy apart and working the blade into previously untouched areas. Years of practice on both himself and other women gave Dominic the steady hands of a surgeon.         

Freshly shaved, Andy was pushed back into the hot water still spilling from the lion’s mouth, clearing away the last remnants of lather from her skin. Andy couldn’t help but shiver despite the heat. A lack of hair left her skin overly sensitive. Once clean, she was given back her robe along with a comb for her hair but lacked the willpower to care. Back in the bedchamber, Labete idly checked his pocket watch and made a regretful noise in the back of his throat.

“Seems time has gotten away from me tonight. If you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to.”

His lips brushed her knuckles again. Andy let her hand fall back to her side, limp as a dead fish. Labete took his leave, hurrying away with Grandmother in tow like a hurricane blowing back to sea.

Left in the aftermath, Andy didn’t know whether she wanted to laugh, cry, scream or a combination of all three. Her hands couldn’t help run across her hairless arms and linger against her smooth thighs.

A knock at the door startled her. Was everything going to have the power to sneak up on her tonight? Andy didn’t move until the knock came again, still as soft as the first few raps. Hesitantly, she opened the door and stared up at a man nearly as large as Labete with a boyish-looking face and close-cropped, black hair. He was one of the Stone-boys she passed while on her way to the third floor.

“Good evening, Mistress,” he nodded, giving her a kind smile Andy didn’t reciprocate. “I’ve been assigned to be your Stone-boy. I’ve brought you up some food in case—”

“What’s your name,” Andy interrupted.

“Daniel,” the Stone-boy answered, bowing slightly at the waist. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“Daniel,” she repeated, testing the name. The door remained cracked. When it became apparent he wasn’t going to be allowed entrance, Daniel smiled thinly and rolled a heavy cart into view.

“Louis was the one who assigned me to you,” he began to explain, lifting the domed covers off the food trays. “And since I didn’t know what you liked in regards to food, I had the kitchen whip up a little of everything the rest of the girls ate today. Don’t worry,” he winked despite Andy’s placidity, “you don’t have to eat it all, but if you could make a list of favorite dishes, that would be very helpful. I’ll relay it to the cooks. Tonight’s fare was poached cod, veal ragout, and a simple Gabure soup with accompanying Niçoise salad. I’ve also brought up a spread of cheeses and a bottle of red wine to accompany the veal. Shall I…just leave this here then?”

Andy could feel her stomach cramping. The smell of the food was an acute reminder of breakfast nearly thirteen hours ago. Intoxicating. Tempting. But she couldn’t bring herself to let him enter. Too many strangers in one day left her desperate for isolation.

“Hand me the wine. Leave the cart.”

Daniel obeyed without question, not even inquiring if she needed a glass. The door clicked shut, dismissing him.

“I’ll come and wake you tomorrow evening, Mistress. Pleasant dreams,” he called through the door before taking his leave.

Seated on the chaise lounge, Andy watched Daniel’s shadow disappear from under the door. Hungry though she was, the temptation of liquid courage was too hard to pass up. The wine would stop her shaking. For a time, anyway.

Swilling directly from the bottle, Andy drank until her mouth and nose burned with the floral scent of expensive liquor. She drank until the room began to spin. Drank some more, chasing the bottom of the bottle and the relief her father always seemed to find there. Unlike him, she didn’t find it. Instead, she filled the bottom of a chamber pot with stomach acid and wine, vision hazy and unsteady as if she were looking at the world through running water. Unwilling to crawl into a stranger’s bed, Andy wrapped herself in a thin blanket and curled atop the chaise, dizzy and sick. Sleep found her, but her dreams brought no relief, haunted by a man the size of a mountain with eyes as cold as steel and chains in her hands.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking a chance on this piece. I hope you enjoyed this little taste. If so, please leave a comment. I love hearing from my readers, new and old


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